


Falling

by TooRational



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: A Very Desus Valentine's 2k18, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Awkwardness, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, First Kiss, Getting Together, Holding Hands, M/M, Post-Canon, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Valentine's Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-08
Updated: 2018-02-08
Packaged: 2019-03-15 14:30:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13615326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TooRational/pseuds/TooRational
Summary: Daryl has never disliked someone so much at first sight.(A story about falling in love.)





	Falling

**Author's Note:**

  * For [shinysylver](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shinysylver/gifts).



> Hey, shinysylver, your secret admirer here! :)
> 
> I'm so glad I was the one to get you because you're awesome and your prompts were lovely. So here's my gift to you, I hope you like it and that it makes you smile.
> 
> Happy Valentine's Day! ♥

**One**

It's funny, how in retrospect things seem obvious, a particular kind of crystal clear. You think back and wonder 'how could I have missed that?' or 'I should have known'.

When, in truth, there's no way you could have known.

In the moment itself you have no idea what's going on. First impressions can be bad or confusing as shit, first meetings can point in completely wrong directions, and people you'll grow close to, ones you'll one day consider family, who you'll kill for and be willing to die for, can put a gun to your head within minutes of meeting them.

Come to think of it, Daryl never had a good first meeting with anyone. He's not sure if that says more about him or other people.

Meeting Jesus, though?

That one takes the cake.

*

Daryl has never disliked someone so much at first sight. From the very second Jesus appears something just feels _off_ , and then shit rapidly starts to go wrong in unexpected ways.

First it's the asshole stealing their truck, then the 'fight' that both him and Rick lose in mere seconds (if you can call that embarrassment 'a fight' at all, dear lord), then it's Jesus smirking infuriatingly when they literally have him at their mercy, then the dick makes Daryl chase him around the field like a three-year-old, then Rick comes at him with the talk in the car -- everything, every-fucking-thing comes together to keep Daryl off-balance and wrong-footed.

All because of this 'Jesus' guy.

And not to mention all the touching. Which isn't a thing Daryl really does, not even with his family, because touch is difficult, and awkward, and dangerous. Requires effort and reaching out and opening up -- everything he's wary of, everything that can get you hurt. In too many ways. (He tells himself he moves too much for casual contact, anyway. Restless feet.)

But Daryl's hands end up on Jesus damn near constantly, be it in rage or when carting his heavy ass across Alexandria for Denise to see, and then back the other way to the cell. In just a handful of short hours he learns the way Jesus moves and runs, the way he fights, the weight of him, the feel of his skin and beard on the bare skin of his shoulder, the way leather crinkles underneath Daryl's clenched fists.

It's all just... wrong. And unnerving.

Daryl doesn't trust this Jesus character at all.

*

The thing is, it all checks out.

Jesus was telling the truth.

For a second, Daryl wishes he wasn't.

He has a feeling life would be so much easier.

*

Here's another first: within 24 hours of meeting him, Daryl decides that Jesus is... okay.

He doesn't lie, he doesn't try to pull one over on them, he isn't a coward or a cheat or a backstabbing asshole. He's a guy taking care of a community all on his own and, honestly, doing a damn good job of it. That posturing asswipe that thinks he's a leader can talk all he wants -- if it wasn't for Jesus, they'd all be screwed. That alone earns Daryl's grudging respect, no matter how much of an annoying little shit the guy is.

Stopping the fight between the Alexandrians and the Hilltop guards, though, that cements it.

Daryl steps up and offers a deal he knows his family would agree with.

Jesus makes it happen.

*

(It will only occur to Daryl later that that's what Jesus' entire 'thing' is. He makes things happen. He provides, supports, organizes, basically does what needs to be done. He's the exact opposite of talking a big game, like Merle used to do. Jesus talks about unimportant stuff, chatters endlessly, but when it comes to accomplishing shit he comes through.

That is... reassuring.)

*

They keep their end of the deal, take care of the outpost, but soon it all goes wrong.

Maggie and Carol get captured, and soon break out.

Denise dies.

Abraham dies.

Glenn dies.

Daryl gets captured.

Everything falls apart.

 

**Two**

It's a strange kind of comfort, being in a trailer again. Daryl's entire life seems to revolve around them, he keeps circling back to them one way or another. This one is nicer that the ones he's used to but it's still recognizably a trailer. You can feel it in the way your footsteps sound, the way it creaks slightly when you move.

Everybody else is out on one business or another, apparently, so Daryl has the space all to himself. It's downright a miracle, considering there's five of them currently living here and that Daryl tries to make himself scarce most of the time.

He settles down on the couch and presses a palm against his wound with a wince. His shoulder is still healing and he overdid it today, so now he can barely move without a sharp pain and a deep pull in the muscles. He'd push through, it's nothing he hasn't felt or done before, but Dr. Carson told him he had to rest or he's risking damaging the nerves and making the injury permanent. It's the thought of being useless to his family, of never being able to hold a crossbow properly or use a blade again, that stops him from scoffing at the Doc and going back to work anyway.

Daryl tries to pull his weight around here, tries very hard not to be a burden to anyone because it's what he'd always done. Being benched gnaws at him, makes his brain spin too much in unwanted directions.

That's the reason he tries to keep away from Maggie, too. And because just looking at her is like someone gutting him slowly, and it feels like all his insides will spill out at the end and he'll be hollow, just like the walkers.

Maybe the oblivion would be a relief. He'd welcome that.

Surprisingly, he dozes off as soon as he stretches out on the couch, a restless and chopped drifting in and out of consciousness without dreams.

An odd sound wakes him up, one that clashes with the steady hum of rain that started recently: a tiny rustling of paper, as if pages are being turned. Something he hasn't heard in a while.

He opens his eyes and finds Jesus leaning against the wall on the bed, legs folded and a book in his lap. He has only a long-sleeved shirt and his usual functional cargoes on, and looks... completely relaxed. Content, even. Hair infuriatingly pretty as always, what the fuck is up with that? Does he use a magical goddamn shampoo of some sort?

Jesus seems to just _radiate_ serenity at any given time, like a picture of calm that Daryl himself hasn't been or felt in ages. Like everything is fine, and will be fine, because he'll make it so. No problems in Jesus-land.

It's irritating and annoying and... and...

And Daryl feels _safe_.

Irritated, yes, but safe. For the first time in weeks, possibly months. Endless days of pain and torture and constant tension, each of them feeling more like years, and it's in this trailer -- with Jesus of all people -- that he finally feels safe. And it's not only a physical kind of safety, though he has no doubt Jesus could easily put down anyone who tried to force their way in here.

It's... safety inside his head. Like the fact that he's out of that cell, away from Dwight and his shit, Negan and his posturing, away from that damn song stuck on repeat, at last manages to sink in. The current reality penetrates skin and settles in Daryl's bones, relieving aches that have been a part of him for so long, he didn't even know they were there until they vanished.

It's so incredible, so un-fucking-believable, that Daryl has to swallow a snort.

Jesus lifts his head and looks at him.

"Hey," he says quietly with a quirk of lips, and Daryl tenses, waits for a pitying look, or a distrusting one, or for that useless 'are you okay' phrase to pass Jesus' lips. God, if Daryl never hears that again, it'll be too soon. It's a fucking shit phrase that means nothing and he hates it. Hates how everyone behaves around him, and hates himself for being like this even more.

Jesus just goes back to reading his book.

Daryl waits, and waits, and waits, until his muscles start protesting, until he starts to feel the twinge in his shoulder again, then reluctantly relaxes.

Well. Okay.

He stays on the couch for a little while longer but soon grows antsy and sits up, and promptly has to suppress a groan.

_Goddammit._

"Shoulder bothering you?" Jesus asks, and when Daryl throws him a sharp glance his head is still down, focused on the book in his lap.

"Nah," Daryl says, just to be contrary.

Jesus looks up and raises an eyebrow at him.

_Little shit._

"What's it to you?" Daryl asks, irritated again.

Jesus just looks at him with all-too-knowing eyes and goddammit, he _always_ does this, always manages to get a rise out of Daryl. It doesn't matter what he feels in any given moment, Jesus can amplify it and push him further than anyone ever has in mere seconds.

Daryl has no idea why it happens, or how to deal with it without starting a fight, so he stands up and goes for the door.

"It's okay to need time and space to recover, there's no shame in that. Or in needing people," Jesus says, like a fucking self-help book. Like he knows anything about anything.

Daryl scoffs and turns around, ready to start that damn fight and finish it, too, but the look in Jesus' eyes stops him.

It's not pity, or superiority, or even condescension.

It's worry.

It's compassion, and _familiarity_. It's seeing, very clearly, everything Daryl that is desperate to hide, and trying to help, at least a little.

It's way more understanding than Daryl deserves, and he looks away, grits his teeth, digs short nails into his palm until it stings. His throat feels like it's held in a vice.

"And Daryl?" Jesus continues, "It wasn't your fault."

The last sentence is uttered with such conviction, such softness, that it hurts worse than being speared with his own arrow. Daryl wants to shout at Jesus, scream himself hoarse, but his throat doesn't cooperate, won't open up even for a deep breath.

Jesus doesn't deserve it, anyway. This is Daryl's shitty life choices and Daryl's worthless existence and Daryl fucking everything up for everyone, as usual.

He steps out into the rain without a word.

*

After the talk with Maggie, after his burden grows slightly less overwhelming and suffocating, he thinks about what Jesus said.

He doesn't believe it, not really, not even after his conversation with Maggie.

But still, _still_ , a tiny, fragile flame of hope ignites.

Maybe.

_Maybe._

*

The next few days pass in a rush of activity: Dwight and his unexpected visit (fuckhead should be dead now, _will be_ as soon as they don't need him anymore, Daryl will make sure of it), making a plan to take down Negan, going to the Oceanside.

Finding himself next to Jesus over and over again.

There's an awareness inside Daryl's brain that wasn't there before, a kind of sense for knowing where the man is at all times. Like fucking echolocation, but tuned into just one person.

The reassurance that Daryl tries to give when they're putting down the explosives feels like it's not enough, pitiful and inadequate, but he can't let Jesus blame himself for something out of his control. And besides, Daryl recognizes when someone struggles with opening up and connecting to people. It's where Daryl himself was not too long ago, it's how he spent the majority of his life.

Daryl has no idea why Jesus chose _him_ to talk to, but he gives back the way his family taught him.

And he keeps an eye on Jesus, even in the chaos of battle at Alexandria a few days later. Jesus watches Maggie's back like a true second, displays the same loyalty that runs so fiercely in Daryl's family, and Daryl is both proud and grateful.

He watches Jesus' back in return because fair is fair.

He's one of them now.

 

**Three**

The war wipes everything clean. Burns through the emotion, incinerates the fragile, tangled vines of feelings like they were never there.

Daryl grows numb to everything but rage, and pain, and fear.

He chokes on blood and ashes until he knows nothing else.

He drowns.

*

The fight with Rick is a low point.

Something deep inside Daryl, something that stayed unmovable and impenetrable through his captivity, his stay at the Kingdom and the Hilltop, all throughout this fucking war -- it hemorrhages, withers, gasps out its dying breath like a wounded animal would.

He doesn't want to be this person. He doesn't want to fight with his brother.

But war doesn't stop for anyone, doesn't ask what you want or need, doesn't give you a moment to take a breath and break surface.

Daryl keeps sinking.

*

Everything around him is soaked in blood.

The ground, the living, the dead, the weapons... It drips off edges and immobile fingertips, it spreads in circles around corpses; dries on steel until it's an all too familiar brownish shade of red.

Everything glistens and refracts light back at Daryl until he feels like no other colors could possibly exist. Until he wonders if his eyes are glowing red as well, if they will rust over and become unseeing.

If that is better than them going white with the senselessness of a walker.

Maybe. Maybe not.

His entire body is trembling subtly, muscles worked to the point of exhaustion and then far beyond it, mind the supreme ruler for hours now. There is no time to rest during battle, there is no time to stop or think or evaluate. You just move. You slash, and stab, and shoot, again and again and again, with no reprieve.

You have to. Because if you don't, you're dead.

"Daryl," comes from behind him, and the only thing that stops him from throwing the knife he's got clenched tightly in his hand is the familiarity of that voice.

Friend.

 _Friend, not enemy,_ he tells his body, orders hands that feel like they're someone else's.

His muscles unclench with agonizing pain, screaming in outrage now that he's finally listening, and he turns around to confirm what his ears are telling him but the rest of him has trouble accepting.

Jesus stands behind him, eyes an electric blue above a bandana. He's a splash of color in a sea of red, clad in shades of brown and black, looking completely out of place. Looking untouched by all this ugliness and violence.

_He's alive._

The relief spills over Daryl and steals his breath, and he can't figure out when _this_ happened, when Jesus being alive became so fucking important.

He thought he was fucking done with caring.

He thought...

Daryl watches as Jesus pulls down his bandana and speaks, lips shaping words that he can't hear over the static filling his ears.

There's not a single blemish on Jesus' face. No freckles, no beauty marks, just smooth skin that seems to repel dirt, just like his hair.

It's so weird.

Blue fills his entire field of vision, edging out the red almost effortlessly, which means...

Which means Jesus is very close.

_Oh._

He is.

He's standing mere inches away with a furrowed brow and worried twist to his mouth. It reminds Daryl of another time Jesus appeared unexpectedly, when his arms were aching from swinging a tire iron down onto a man's head, and his mind shies away from the image.

Fingers curl carefully around Daryl's wrist, inches above his tight grip on the knife, and he'd flinch but doesn't have the energy for it.

So he bows his head, closes his eyes because he can't do this anymore.

He can't.

Whatever drove him until now, whatever kept him on his feet, it's gone.

It's fucking _gone_.

"Daryl, hey, where'd you go? Time to come back, come on."

The dial in his mind finally finds a station to tune into, one with nervous chatter apparently, just as a palm cups the side of his neck. Daryl sighs, limbs heavy as lead, and finds the strength to nod, just a little.

"Okay, good, that's good. You scared me there for a second."

Resting his forehead on Jesus' shoulder is not a conscious decision, he just feels leather on his skin, hears a click in Jesus' throat as he shuts up abruptly and swallows.

Jesus is not wearing his gloves.

Daryl feels it on the thumb brushing his wrist, in the fingers that wrap around the nape of his neck, steady and reassuring. It sends a shiver down his spine, anchors him a little bit more in the now.

Pulls him back from the abyss.

He wonders if he's drawing so much comfort from this because it's Jesus he's leaning on, or if any member of his family would do? If--

"You ok, brother?"

Daryl startles and snaps his head up, his heart racing as the glass bubble surrounding him shatters abruptly.

Rick.

This is... not good.

Not good at all.

Rick's the second person to sneak up to him in five minutes, what the f--

Third.

Michonne is a few feet away, too, scanning their surroundings calmly with her faithful katana in hand. A small nod is the only acknowledgment she has for Daryl's mental fucking breakdown.

It's not--

He can't--

_Fuck._

_Jesus._

He can't even look at Jesus, the rock in his gut grinding away at his insides.

(Jesus' hands were down and away as soon as Rick spoke, and Daryl got the answer to his question.

It just brings more questions with it.

Daryl has no fucking clue what to do now.)

"Yeah," Daryl answers belatedly, and moves to join the couple without a word.

He walks slowly, though.

Measures his steps, lags behind.

And when Jesus finally catches up, he breathes easier.

*

The War ends.

It's barely the beginning.

**Four**

'Peace' is more difficult than war in some ways.

The instincts are all still present, the hypervigilance a permanent twitch in his brain and limbs, and the nightmares...

Yeah.

The less said about those.

They rebuild Alexandria, expand Hilltop, shuffle people and trade goods and livestock until all communities have what they need.

Things are looking up. Everything is slowly getting better.

It's also growing much, much worse.

Daryl still feels like he's fucking drowning.

He ends up at the Hilltop more often than not, monthly visits that gradually turn into weekly drives clearing his head a little bit. Seeing Maggie, her baby, Enid, and... and Jesus, it helps. Finding them safe and healthy, smeared with dirt from planting and digging instead of the blood and entrails that he sees in his dreams.

And besides, keeping an eye on Jesus is... important.

Somehow.

It's also ridiculous.

The war is over, there's no danger anymore -- well, besides the normal, everyday 'living with walkers roaming around' kind of danger. And the random murderous survivors danger. And the general 'we're going to starve / freeze / get sick and die / get wiped out by Mother Nature's hand' danger.

Okay, so there's a shit-ton of danger, but it's not immediate or anything anyone can really prepare for nor predict. It's not imminent, and it's very equal opportunity, and Jesus in particular is pretty well-equipped in this survival business. In fact, it could be argued he'd be the last man standing.

But Daryl's brain doesn't care. It's one-track and stubborn as a mule and plays 'keep Jesus safe' on a loop at random times like a dickhead. (In between loops of 'keep Maggie and the baby safe' and 'keep Rick and Michonne safe' and 'keep Carol safe' and 'keep the rest of the family safe', it's just that Jesus' iteration is particularly... grating.)

And since this is Daryl's shitty, shitty life, it's not even right -- it turns out _Daryl_ is the one that needs to be 'kept safe'. Like some baby.

Because of course he would survive the war with no major injury and then something as stupid as a misstep almost kills him.

Fucking figures.

*

He wakes up to every single muscle in his body aching with a deep, dull intensity he hasn't felt in decades.

_Fucking hell._

Snippets of the previous day play in his mind like a movie: the misstep, the fall, the pain of glass drilling into his back. The hours of Doc Carson digging out bloody shards out of him while Jesus half-assisted, half kept Daryl from twitching too hard, wiping his sweat down, fetching the Doc fresh supplies, and all throughout keeping up a constant stream of babble to distract Daryl.

Expert opinion: there is no distracting a person when someone is picking out a hundred pieces of glass from their body without anesthesia. It can't be done.

Still, Jesus tried his best.

During those endless hours Daryl found himself clinging to Jesus' hand like one would to a lifeline, drifting in a sea of pain and barely aware of himself. It's embarrassing as hell, recalling the tight grip he physically couldn't make himself give up, the pathetic display of weakness that Jesus had to put up with.

Even if he didn't seem to mind.

Even though his eyes were soft and whispered words comforting.

Daryl held on, focused all his attention on breathing and listening to Jesus' voice and managed to pass out before the Doc was done, body finally hitting its limit.

And when he opens his eyes hours later, it's to Jesus again.

Still.

Sleeping in a chair he pulled up next to the bed, left hand clasped in Daryl's, resting on the bed between them.

Like it's no big deal.

It's... It feels...

It feels like too much, not enough, wonderful and terrifying.

Daryl gives up on trying to figure out his insides and focuses on Jesus' hair, his beard, his chest rising and falling rhythmically.

There are light purple circles beneath Jesus' eyes, and he looks rumpled and tired even in his sleep. The guilt at adding another burden to Jesus' already massive load of responsibilities and worries sits heavy on Daryl's chest, but he can't curb the warmth that spreads at the thought of being so important to him.

Jesus stayed with him.

He wouldn't leave even when the Doc told him he could.

He didn't let go of Daryl's hand once throughout last night's nightmare, which is more than... almost anyone would do.

Daryl stares at him, long and hard, completely confused but also...

Resigned, in a way.

There's no going back now. This is officially A Thing, and it'll probably only bring heartbreak and trouble.

Daryl is no good for anyone, he's a damn definition of damaged goods. Way beyond any repairing or even duct-taping back together.

He's old, and worn, and he'd only smear grease and sins onto clean skin, tarnish the goodness that shines out of Jesus.

Paul.

It suits him, that name. Makes it easier to see the person behind the persona he puts on so people feel better, sleep easier.

He takes on so much, tries so hard...

Daryl would just be another burden, best to stay away, to...

To...

Daryl drifts off mid-thought, fingers still entwined with Jesus', cradling the limb in his sleep as if it's something precious.

(It's the most precious thing he's held in a long while.)

 

**Five**

A month later they're in the woods, Daryl hunting again and Jesus having 'nothing better to do' than hang out and help haul back the catch, if it pans out.

(Daryl is skeptical about that excuse, but he can't say anything without Jesus confronting him about avoiding both the Hilltop and him in particular, so he keeps quiet.

It's difficult to focus as it is, even with Jesus quiet as a mouse behind him.)

They're maybe half an hour from the Hilltop when a bunch of walkers fall on them literally from nowhere. It's nothing they can't handle, but these days a wrong step could mean a bite and swallowing a bullet not to turn on your family, so they're both extra careful.

It goes okay until one of the walkers draws too close to Jesus, manages to wrap a bony hand around his upper arm and yank him off balance, and Daryl just fucking _freaks_.

There's no better word for what happens inside him -- his heart goes nuts, his brain freezes in panic, cold sweat breaks out and bile rises in the back of his throat.

_No no nonono._

He moves after a long second of immobility, steps in and kills the walker efficiently, then puts Jesus at his back and proceeds to take the brunt of the walker attack, slashes and puts down the rotting bodies with a viciousness born out of desperation.

"What are you doing?" Jesus asks after, while Daryl's staring at the scattered remains of what was people a long time ago.

He scrambles for a reply that won't give anything away. "What's it look like?"

"Daryl."

Should've have known that won't work on Jesus.

"Daryl," Jesus repeats, this time with a warning in his voice.

"Leave it be," Daryl says, and busies himself with cleaning his blade, wiping it on his jeans, then swings his crossbow in its usual place at his back.

"No, I won't leave it be, this is ridiculous."

Daryl moves to continue walking back towards Hilltop and Jesus just shifts with him, blocks his path.

"Move."

"No."

Daryl looks into his eyes defiantly, and Jesus just waits with eyebrows raised.

And waits, and waits, and while Daryl is pretty patient when hunting, he's useless at staying put.

He's also useless at refusing Jesus anything anymore.

"I was killin' walkers, what?"

"Oh, and this is my first time outside and I have no idea how to use a knife?"

"No, but--"

"But what, you have amnesia? You can't remember who I am?"

Jesus is just growing more and more annoyed, and it should be funny but it's just making Daryl panic even more.

" _No,_ what the--"

"You don't trust me at your back, is that it?"

There's a sharpness to Jesus' voice but it covers up a hint of hurt, and Daryl grows desperate because he doesn't want that, doesn't want to hurt Jesus, that's the last fucking thing he wants in this damn world.

"I _do_ \--"

"Then _what_?"

"You can't get hurt," Daryl chokes out finally, out of options and nowhere to hide.

Jesus stills.

"What?"

"Just... just don't get hurt. I ain't... I'd fucking..."

Daryl huffs, shakes his head and grits out " _Please_ ", the word ripping itself out of his throat and cutting his tongue as he says it.

Jesus looks at him for a long moment, eyes wide, and Daryl looks away.

His fucking _soul_ aches at the mere thought...

"You know I can take care of myself," Jesus says gently, quietly, like a loud sound will shatter Daryl.

And maybe it will. It feels like his entire body is shaking, though his hands are steady when he looks down.

Daryl nods in acknowledgment but can't unstick his throat enough to say that he knows, _he knows_ , and it doesn't fucking matter.

Not one bit.

Jesus' boots enter his line of vision, and Daryl snaps his head up, wary of a 'poor Daryl' look or a--

He doesn't recognize this look.

No.

No, he does recognize the look, it's just...

He'd seen it on other people, aimed at other people.

It was never meant for him before.

And Jesus is so close, he can almost count _all_ the colors that make up his eyes, all the shades of blue and green and grey.

His eyes drop lower, to the shade of pink he's had dreams about, and he can't look away.

He _can't_ , he's stuck, and this will be a disaster, what is he _thinking_ \--

"If you don't want this, just tell me," Jesus whispers in the space between them. "Just say the word and I stop."

Daryl's stomach clenches anxiously but his heart reaches out, and he's frozen with indecision for a moment, two, three...

And then soft lips are pressed against his, stealing his breath and spreading tingles in all directions.

It's... nice.

Very, very nice, _dear lord_. The softness, the warmth, the connection to another human being, to _Jesus_ \-- it's sweet and intoxicating, like the first fruit of the season. His head spins and Daryl closes his eyes and leans in, chasing the taste, the plumpness, that hint of teeth.

He's kissed various people a few times before, last one years ago now, but it was nothing like this. The similarity is in name only because kissing Jesus is like drowning and drawing the first breath, falling and landing on a mountain of pillows at the same time.

His heart twinges and shudders in his chest, lungs forget what their purpose is in the first place. His body is a mess.

Gentle hands settle on Daryl's waist, heat seeping into his muscles until he drops his crossbow and dares to touch back, wrap a shaking hand around Jesus' jaw. The beard tickles his palm.

Jesus moves forward, presses his body against Daryl's, and Daryl whines in the back of his throat helplessly. It feels... fucking _incredible_. Like tiny sparks going off on every single point of contact between them. Is this how people always feel when touching someone... special?

Higher thought is wiped out when Jesus shifts, entwines them even more, kisses Daryl deeper and longer and--

Daryl titters on the edge of something for long minutes, fighting the unknown, and then just gives up.

_Fuck it._

He falls.

 

**Six**

The new development is...

It's slow and sudden and surprising and completely obvious, in retrospect.

Not much changes. There are tiny adjustments, progress stuttering and slip-sliding, a string of good days and then a handful of bad ones. Being away from the Hilltop for days then coming back in a rush, unable to stay away any longer.

But at the same time, _everything_ changes.

There's an entire person now attached to Daryl. Closer than anyone has ever been to him on a regular basis, physically.

Sometimes more than physically, and that part is... still terrifying.

Daryl learns and adjusts, slowly. Figures out what it all means, sometimes on his own, sometimes with Paul's help.

In the beginning, it's making sure the little ninja sleeps enough, and eats enough, and doesn't work himself to death. (It's more difficult than Daryl thought it would be.) It's taking care of someone and keeping an eye on someone that is incredibly precious in a way no one ever was to Daryl before.

It's also finding spare bolts for his crossbow in random places, and learning he has someone to turn to when the nightmares keep him up, when before he'd keep watch until there was enough light to set off for the woods. It's having someone to lean on when the day is long, or when his chest grows tight with aches and memories.

It becomes visiting the Hilltop more often, and Paul finding random reasons to be in Alexandria twice as much. It becomes having back-up and a safe haven, and being so sure of it, it's like knowing the sun will set and rise again in the morning.

It slowly, so very slowly becomes sleeping together, bodies pressed together like puzzle pieces, drawing comfort from each other.

It grows from there, every day, every second, every waking moment.

*

He feels more than sees Paul next to him, probably listening to Rick and Maggie intently, one layer of clothing between Daryl's bare bicep and tempting, warm skin.

It's distracting, brings back sensory memories that are so strong they almost flash before his wide-open eyes, but Daryl pushes them away, tries to focus on the meeting.

He's only half-successful.

Luckily, they soon finish up for the day, and Paul moves to leave when Rick asks Daryl to stay for a word.

Daryl nods at Rick and catches Paul's elbow on pure instinct.

"See you after training?" Daryl asks quietly, after floundering for a few seconds.

He doesn't even know why he stopped Paul, but he just... had to. Felt off enough to need contact. The meeting dragged out memories of past war councils and he suddenly didn't want to let Paul out of his sight without making sure he's... okay. Real.

Still here, after everything.

And of course they'll meet up after training, they usually do. For people practically living together by now, they spend a whole lot of time hanging out at random places in both the Hilltop and Alexandria.

Daryl never knew you could spend so much time with someone and never grow sick of them.

"Yeah," Paul replies just as quietly, and smiles that soft Daryl-smile that Daryl still can't believe exists.

Daryl nods and slides his hand down Paul's forearm, and hidden between their bodies, Paul continues the motion. He drags his fingertips lightly down Daryl's wrist and palm, all the way up to the tips of his fingers. It's a split-second move before they release each other reluctantly but the feeling rushes through Daryl, clears his head and makes him centered again.

"What's goin' on?" he turns to Rick a second after the door closes behind Paul, then moves to join the man at the table.

Rick smiles at him, eyes knowing, and pats him on the shoulder twice before turning to the map spread out in front of them.

"Okay, so--"

*

Here is one more side-effect to this whole thing that Daryl didn't anticipate: his mind and eyes stray to Paul constantly.

He's in tune to the smallest movement the little ninja makes, finds himself watching him while he works, and sleeps, and laughs, and it's completely embarrassing but he can't help it.

Keeping track of Paul's breathing soon becomes the only way Daryl can relax and drift off to sleep.

Daryl's skin is sensitive to even a smallest touch by Paul, his ears pick up the cadence of Paul's steps (when he allows himself to be heard, sneaky little ninja that he is), he knows the rhythm of Paul's heart, he'd know the scent of his skin blindfolded in a line-up, and the taste of his lips without the smallest doubt.

And it all stacks up, snowballs, expands and grows, until there's no greater comfort than to feel Paul standing beside him, leaning on his arm or back or chest while they talk to someone or just watch the sunrise in the woods.

Until Paul can stop Daryl in his tracks with just the touch of his fingertips, or by wrapping a gentle palm around Daryl's forearm.

Until Daryl can be and do the same to Paul, which is mind-blowing and something he'd never even thought possible. To have that sort of trust, be that person in someone's life -- it's terrifying and humbling at once, and Daryl takes great care not to take advantage of it.

They both do.

Little by little, they entwine their lives, just like their bodies, just like they share their family.

It feels pretty fucking great.

 

**Seven**

The woods around Hilltop are peaceful, cold and silent, unlike the Hilltop itself at the moment.

Daryl breathes in and out slowly, happy to have escaped the frankly terrifying effort and energy the community is pouring into organizing and celebrating Valentine's Day.

_Valentine's Day._

Which someone clearly overzealous and bored figured out the exact day to.

Actually, it wasn't just that. Sure, people figuring out what date it is a few months ago got the ball rolling, but the real problems started once kids got their hands on history books during classes that were organized to keep the tiny terrors occupied and some education got poured into their heads.

Kids read about it, asked what it was, got into a tizzy about it, and it all kind of spun out of control after that.

And normally Daryl wouldn't even think about it because it's ridiculous, right? First, it's kids' stuff, not worth mentioning at all unless you're Carl and Enid or one of those sickeningly lovey-dovey couples that are, thankfully, scarce in the apocalypse. Second, it's fucking _Valentine's Day_ , Daryl wouldn't be caught dead near it.

Well. Usually he wouldn't, but...

Okay, look, it's something people do to show other people they care, right? That's the original intent behind the holiday, however overblown and annoying it was before the end of the world, and useless now that survival is a priority and any comforts a distant second on the list.

And if you don't do anything, then it sort of sends the opposite message, that you don't care about your someone, and... And Daryl doesn't want to send that message to Paul.

It's just _not fucking true_.

Which means he was forced to do something, kind of by default. And he did, only now he's worried it's completely inappropriate and stupid and...

Because people got really creative. Flowers, fruits, all sorts of useful craft-y things (clothing, accessories), books, even weapons. Paul got a few boxes of random stuff from a mall last time they were on a run, and left it at Barrington for the people to take if they wanted to. Cards got exchanged, either children's homemade ones or raided from the aforementioned mall. (Shockingly, no one looted holiday cards in the struggle for survival, so the choices were varied and plentiful.)

It ends up being a small affair, which could have been mistaken for any other day if you didn't pay attention, but Daryl still freaked out and left Hilltop a few hours ago.

And now he's wondering if he hurt Paul with his avoidance and stupidity.

(He tries not to, every single day, tries to be good to him, tries to be worthy, but there are days when he feels like it's never going to be enough. Like _he'll_ never be enough. Luckily, Paul is there to persuade him otherwise.)

"Hello, stranger," the little ninja says from right behind him, still a sneaky little shit, and Daryl smiles automatically.

It's almost second nature by now, this curl that happens without his permission, the warmth that lives in his chest whenever he's near Paul, whenever he hears his voice. Daryl fell asleep to its soft cadence so many times he lost count, listened to numerous chapters and magical worlds whenever nightmares kept them both up.

He just...

He fucking _loves_ the little ninja so much that--

That--

...goddammit, he's gonna have to do this.

No turning back now.

Daryl takes a deep breath and turns around. Standing in a sunny patch, hands in his pockets and a smile on his face, Paul looks so lovely it hurts a little.

Daryl extends a hand, palm up, and says, "Come with me?"

*

"You didn't have to get me anything. I mean, I didn't expect it, really. So much so that I haven't even gotten you anything, which is really embarrassing right now. And it's not like I can just hop to the store for a second. The Apocalypse, you know, kind of inconvenient."

Paul has babbled on and off all the way back to the Hilltop, which means he's anxious and nervous, and that wasn't really what Daryl meant to accomplish.

It also doesn't help Daryl's nerves at all, so he tries to say something reassuring.

"I know. You never expect _anything_. 's why I had to," Daryl says the last sentence quietly, but judging by the tight grip on his hand Paul hears it anyway. Understands what Daryl meant, and is grateful for even the smallest sign of affection.

He always is. It baffles Daryl, that deep-set insecurity Paul can't seem to shake, when he deserves the world laid out under his feet.

Behind their trailer and a little bit to the left, three willowy, newly-planted saplings stretch to the sky, around 5 feet tall each because Daryl couldn't sneak in any bigger ones from the forest.

"These are for you," Daryl waves a hand in a sweeping motion, and Paul looks at him, confused.

"What?"

"I know you like all of these, and there are none inside the walls. That one is a black chestnut, then there's the wild cherry, and that one over there's a walnut. Walnut'll probably need 'bout ten years to start givin' nuts, but the chestnut and the cherry oughta do it within three to five."

Daryl is nervous as hell, but Paul is not looking at him as if he's completely certifiable so that's... good?

"You found and replanted these for me?"

"Yeah. Maggie helped, though. It ain't really the time for it, and I had to do a bit of searchin' for 'em, but it wasn't so hard when you know what you're lookin' for."

Daryl fidgets a little but pushes on. He has to explain, so it all spills out in a tangled mess.

"Figured you can scavenge whatever you want for yourself, and I know dinner and going out and cologne or something is expected, but, um... Thought you might like this."

Paul turns to him and smiles, wide and happy, and says, "I do, I really like it."

He pecks Daryl and then lets go of his hand and goes over to get a closer look at 'his trees'. He inspects every single one carefully, touches the fragile branches covered to keep them from freezing until spring, then comes back to where Daryl is standing.

"Thank you," he says, pulls Daryl gently towards him with palms on his cheeks and kisses him again, this time in that deep, breath-stealing way, and Daryl gets a little lost in time and space.

(How the fuck that still happens, after so much time together, he has no idea.)

It took a long time for them to get to this point, of doing this outside and not caring who sees, but they're here. Daryl doesn't even notice anymore.

"Can I tell you a secret?" Paul says, arms around Daryl, eyes incredible shades of green today.

"Yeah," Daryl says, spellbound, the word barely a sound.

"You, Daryl Dixon, are my favorite person in the whole world," Paul says in a whisper, then kisses him again, sweet as honey.

*

The trees grow tall and strong, and survive for years to come, flourishing despite all odds.

Just like Daryl and Paul.


End file.
